when i wrote a post on 1.12.2006 i'd just been notified that i was the candidate NOT selected for a job at the UW College of Engineering. it was a heard-poetry sort of thing, featuring lines that have been said to me over the course of my past year of writer-job searching. some bitterness may be detectable in those lines -- at the time of the writing, my mellow had been severely harshed. now though things have begun to fill and i am, without doubt, at least part-way up in this bitch. to capture my current confindent state of being, the particulars of my dope-ass idiom, let's look back on those same lines through a different lense. this one courtesy of gizoogle.
vishizzous square.
i’m jizzay positive tizzy you’re going ta be very successful.
tha list of th'n i know fo` certain `bout me is pretty shizzort.
i really enjoyed our conversizzles playa really a lot.
one thing on there is this: thugz generally like me. mizzle tizzle not.
you wizzy absolutely tha bizzy writa of tha bizzay.
anotha is tizzle i’m a decent nigga.
i look forward ta tha day wizzle i wizzle into tha store n piznick up a book wit yo name on it dogg.
i’ve a long, almost deadly long stretch in F-R-to-tha-izzont of me if i’m ta git ta wizzle i know i’m capable of, writ'n-wise.
tha panel decided ta go wit someone who has more experience.
but i’m decent. right now: i’m a nigga who speaks Truth.
tha group fizzay you lacked a certain level of experience.
don’t misunderstand: i’m a shit-all amateur n i kizzle it.
tha team recognized that you do superb work, but tha relevant experience was not there.
it’s jizzay that i also happen ta kizzy that on a dime i can concoct an elaborate sausage regard'n tha panel’s need ta self-fellate – ta shiznit they cheeks wit they own collective bureaizzles C-to-tha-izzock – n it will be more delightful n evocative than tha lifetime of professizzle wizzork by whicheva brow-furrowed eaga-lipped wrinkle-resizzle fleshy-sacked cockmeista it was who had tha appropriate experience today.
everybody feels sure that you’re going ta be a bootylicious success whereva it is that you finally kick it root down.
12 February 2006
31 January 2006
let me hear your bible talk.
the famous 15th century cloistered reflective st. olivia de newton of the john once wrote, in what is widely considered to be her most plaintive and delightfully overt treatise, these simple lines: “i want to get biblical, let's get into biblical – your bible talk, let me hear your bible talk.”
now then.
i was reading the bible yesterday. going back to this same passage that has kept bound me to it for the past month, trying to qualify it in a way that allows for enough understanding that i can absorb it and go on. and i was getting there – i’d just decided to draw out a fabulously relevant parallel between elisha and tony montana, pacino’s character in scarface – when i got buried beneath these unwanted considerations about the way the story is told. about the language. what happened was i found myself thinking: we have the past as it is given to us. smacks of maxim, i realize, but consider it. in the case of the bible, particularly the old testament: just the way people described each other had an almost unknowable matter-of-factness, as when the king of samaria, in 2 kings 1, asks his messengers “what kind of man” had just predicted his death to them, they replied that elijah “was a hairy man and had a leather belt around his waist.” and dude, that is just so sweet. not “he seemed vengeful” or “he had the fire of god in his eyes” or even “he was this crazy-lookin’ mo-foh, and i mean crazy crazy,” but “he had a garment of hair and a large belt.”
but i don’t even know if that’s a halfway worthy point. because yes, our understanding of the way life happened clear back then – of what consitituted the surprising, the out-of-norm – is drawn by how the noteworthy is described. and, one thing about the bible, sometimes the parallels between then and now are really obvious. like in 2 kings, when it says that “moab rebelled against israel. now ahaziah had fallen through the lattice of his upper room in samaria and injured himself. so he sent messengers.” right, of course he did. and is that really so different? just one day ago i got an email from my good friend dalton at 6:03am, which said, “sump pump gave out in the night. went down to get the baby and stepped in ankle deep water throughout the basement. so i sent messengers.”
now then.
i was reading the bible yesterday. going back to this same passage that has kept bound me to it for the past month, trying to qualify it in a way that allows for enough understanding that i can absorb it and go on. and i was getting there – i’d just decided to draw out a fabulously relevant parallel between elisha and tony montana, pacino’s character in scarface – when i got buried beneath these unwanted considerations about the way the story is told. about the language. what happened was i found myself thinking: we have the past as it is given to us. smacks of maxim, i realize, but consider it. in the case of the bible, particularly the old testament: just the way people described each other had an almost unknowable matter-of-factness, as when the king of samaria, in 2 kings 1, asks his messengers “what kind of man” had just predicted his death to them, they replied that elijah “was a hairy man and had a leather belt around his waist.” and dude, that is just so sweet. not “he seemed vengeful” or “he had the fire of god in his eyes” or even “he was this crazy-lookin’ mo-foh, and i mean crazy crazy,” but “he had a garment of hair and a large belt.”
but i don’t even know if that’s a halfway worthy point. because yes, our understanding of the way life happened clear back then – of what consitituted the surprising, the out-of-norm – is drawn by how the noteworthy is described. and, one thing about the bible, sometimes the parallels between then and now are really obvious. like in 2 kings, when it says that “moab rebelled against israel. now ahaziah had fallen through the lattice of his upper room in samaria and injured himself. so he sent messengers.” right, of course he did. and is that really so different? just one day ago i got an email from my good friend dalton at 6:03am, which said, “sump pump gave out in the night. went down to get the baby and stepped in ankle deep water throughout the basement. so i sent messengers.”
25 January 2006
..might as well jump. jump!
can't ya see me standin' here, i got my back against the record machine
no i haven't jumped the shark, i will bounce back from this
and come out clean
balls ain't so small as they seem
you say even my "failures are contrived" but also that we're "part of a team"
well it won't be long now till you will see that i'm for serious
my inside-voice wants to scream
and my libido, it teems...
i ain't the worst that you've seen.
no i haven't jumped the shark, i will bounce back from this
and come out clean
balls ain't so small as they seem
you say even my "failures are contrived" but also that we're "part of a team"
well it won't be long now till you will see that i'm for serious
my inside-voice wants to scream
and my libido, it teems...
i ain't the worst that you've seen.
12 January 2006
vicious square.
i’m just positive that you’re going to be very successful.
the list of things i know for certain about myself is pretty short.
i really enjoyed our conversations together, really a lot.
one thing on there is this: people generally like me. more than not.
you were absolutely the best writer of the bunch.
another is that i’m a decent writer.
i look forward to the day when i walk into the store and pick up a book with your name on it.
i’ve a long, almost deadly long stretch in front of me if i’m to get to what i know i’m capable of, writing-wise.
the panel decided to go with someone who has more experience.
but i’m decent. right now: i’m good.
the group felt you lacked a certain level of experience.
don’t misunderstand: i’m a shit-all amateur and i know it.
the team recognized that you do superb work, but the relevant experience was not there.
it’s just that i also happen to know that on a dime i can concoct an elaborate analogy regarding the panel’s need to self-fellate – to stuff their cheeks with their own collective bureaucratic cock – and it will be more delightful and evocative than the lifetime of professional work by whichever brow-furrowed eager-lipped wrinkle-resistant fleshy-sacked cockmeister it was who had the appropriate experience today.
everybody feels sure that you’re going to be a great success wherever it is that you finally end up.
the list of things i know for certain about myself is pretty short.
i really enjoyed our conversations together, really a lot.
one thing on there is this: people generally like me. more than not.
you were absolutely the best writer of the bunch.
another is that i’m a decent writer.
i look forward to the day when i walk into the store and pick up a book with your name on it.
i’ve a long, almost deadly long stretch in front of me if i’m to get to what i know i’m capable of, writing-wise.
the panel decided to go with someone who has more experience.
but i’m decent. right now: i’m good.
the group felt you lacked a certain level of experience.
don’t misunderstand: i’m a shit-all amateur and i know it.
the team recognized that you do superb work, but the relevant experience was not there.
it’s just that i also happen to know that on a dime i can concoct an elaborate analogy regarding the panel’s need to self-fellate – to stuff their cheeks with their own collective bureaucratic cock – and it will be more delightful and evocative than the lifetime of professional work by whichever brow-furrowed eager-lipped wrinkle-resistant fleshy-sacked cockmeister it was who had the appropriate experience today.
everybody feels sure that you’re going to be a great success wherever it is that you finally end up.
10 January 2006
finally the demon monkeys that live in my hair will have their voices heard.*
The sidewalk bends where your house ends
Like the neighborhood is on its knees
(from HEM: stupid mouth shut)
“the sidewalk bends where your house ends.” i barely made out the words over the others’ chorus of high shrieks and giggles. (awful sounds, these. as bad as you can get, tear-your-eyeballs-from-your-face-and-stomp-on-them sounds; there ought to be a word for it… shriggles?) then i heard it again, as if whispering in my ear. and indeed it was, for i could feel the little demon whiskers brushing against my lobe: “…sidewalk bends where you house ends.” it was as poetic a thing as i’d ever heard the voices utter, and it was intriguing: the voices had not before employed nuance, to any degree. now, though, during this most unlikely of times, there it was: an intriguing turn of phrase, and one that rhymed, to boot. the voices, you should know, took many forms, but in this period had elected to manifest as demon monkeys that lived in my hair. (they did this for reasons that were unlikely but also practical, eg, close proximity to the back of my head, and ease of travel, but i would not learn of these considerations until much later.) this was the umpteenth physical manifestation of the voices, and it represented a positive evolution in their quest to use me as their earthly muse: you see, i liked monkeys. as a boy i had longed to own one, only abandoning the quest when uncle leroy left for me a buckshot-filled squirrel with a little red hat duct-taped to its head. and now here they were, more monkeys than i could count, living in my hair. the only problem was that they were also tawdry little demons, squealing constantly, shriggling about how they felt overlooked, or whatever. they were of one voice, not like a proletariat collective voice or anything, but in the sense that they shrieked all differently but at the same time, and when they stopped, they ceased en total. all the more surprising, then, that one would elect to whisper to me a private message. i went and stood in my doorway, where i saw only what i expected: no sidewalk at all, but instead a moshed muddy path that ran from my aerostream, through the bramble and weeds, and over the hill into the parking lot. so it was as i expected, and yet, i could not see the parking lot, nor any other part of the trailer community, for all was hidden past the bend in the hill … if the dirty path counted as sidewalk, i reasoned, perhaps a hill was good enough to be “bends.” it was all beyond reason, my sudden to go and inspect the parking lot. but then, one must remember i had demon monkeys living in my hair; as such, reason was a relative undertaking. and sure enough: as i rounded the bend in the hill the demon monkeys started their shrieking – not the shriggling i described earlier, but a frenzy of delighted, anticipatory screams. it was a state of demon anarchy, a monkey rave happening in my hair, and as i rounded the bend and looked down at the lot below me, i knew why. there , in close circles around a series of bonfires, were grouped all of the residents of my un-gated community, plus many others, engaged in a convulsed dance. and all of these had monkeys swinging from their hair, whooping wildly as they clawed and swirled, spinning their headly perch and the rest of its owners around in circles with the combustive force of their movements. and i was transfixed by it; even the demon monkeys in my hair went quiet with the sight. for it was almost beautiful, like orgasm without forewarning, like grace without the coordination part; like the neighborhood is on its knees.
*one of my favorite patton oswalt lines.
Like the neighborhood is on its knees
(from HEM: stupid mouth shut)
“the sidewalk bends where your house ends.” i barely made out the words over the others’ chorus of high shrieks and giggles. (awful sounds, these. as bad as you can get, tear-your-eyeballs-from-your-face-and-stomp-on-them sounds; there ought to be a word for it… shriggles?) then i heard it again, as if whispering in my ear. and indeed it was, for i could feel the little demon whiskers brushing against my lobe: “…sidewalk bends where you house ends.” it was as poetic a thing as i’d ever heard the voices utter, and it was intriguing: the voices had not before employed nuance, to any degree. now, though, during this most unlikely of times, there it was: an intriguing turn of phrase, and one that rhymed, to boot. the voices, you should know, took many forms, but in this period had elected to manifest as demon monkeys that lived in my hair. (they did this for reasons that were unlikely but also practical, eg, close proximity to the back of my head, and ease of travel, but i would not learn of these considerations until much later.) this was the umpteenth physical manifestation of the voices, and it represented a positive evolution in their quest to use me as their earthly muse: you see, i liked monkeys. as a boy i had longed to own one, only abandoning the quest when uncle leroy left for me a buckshot-filled squirrel with a little red hat duct-taped to its head. and now here they were, more monkeys than i could count, living in my hair. the only problem was that they were also tawdry little demons, squealing constantly, shriggling about how they felt overlooked, or whatever. they were of one voice, not like a proletariat collective voice or anything, but in the sense that they shrieked all differently but at the same time, and when they stopped, they ceased en total. all the more surprising, then, that one would elect to whisper to me a private message. i went and stood in my doorway, where i saw only what i expected: no sidewalk at all, but instead a moshed muddy path that ran from my aerostream, through the bramble and weeds, and over the hill into the parking lot. so it was as i expected, and yet, i could not see the parking lot, nor any other part of the trailer community, for all was hidden past the bend in the hill … if the dirty path counted as sidewalk, i reasoned, perhaps a hill was good enough to be “bends.” it was all beyond reason, my sudden to go and inspect the parking lot. but then, one must remember i had demon monkeys living in my hair; as such, reason was a relative undertaking. and sure enough: as i rounded the bend in the hill the demon monkeys started their shrieking – not the shriggling i described earlier, but a frenzy of delighted, anticipatory screams. it was a state of demon anarchy, a monkey rave happening in my hair, and as i rounded the bend and looked down at the lot below me, i knew why. there , in close circles around a series of bonfires, were grouped all of the residents of my un-gated community, plus many others, engaged in a convulsed dance. and all of these had monkeys swinging from their hair, whooping wildly as they clawed and swirled, spinning their headly perch and the rest of its owners around in circles with the combustive force of their movements. and i was transfixed by it; even the demon monkeys in my hair went quiet with the sight. for it was almost beautiful, like orgasm without forewarning, like grace without the coordination part; like the neighborhood is on its knees.
*one of my favorite patton oswalt lines.
05 January 2006
Some-thing Viscous This Way Comes
The Memoir of a Loving Man
By O.U. Didnitz
Chapter 1 – Step into da Wolf
Chapter 2 – Gay for Hey Hey Hey!: The parabolic sexual reachings of a young man whose main role model is Fat Albert
Chapter 3 – She Just Smiled and Showed Me Her Vegemite Sandwich: Some things get straightened out
Chapter 4 – Give Me the News: I’ve got a bad case of loving, you happen to be nearby
Chapter 5 – Freedom Kissing: Changing terminology instead of changing what you want from her
Chapter 6 – Prostate Tickling: Same as Chapter 5, but for pervs
Chapter 7 – What Life Has in Store for Me
Epilogue – Like Nirvana, But Without the Nuance
By O.U. Didnitz
Chapter 1 – Step into da Wolf
Chapter 2 – Gay for Hey Hey Hey!: The parabolic sexual reachings of a young man whose main role model is Fat Albert
Chapter 3 – She Just Smiled and Showed Me Her Vegemite Sandwich: Some things get straightened out
Chapter 4 – Give Me the News: I’ve got a bad case of loving, you happen to be nearby
Chapter 5 – Freedom Kissing: Changing terminology instead of changing what you want from her
Chapter 6 – Prostate Tickling: Same as Chapter 5, but for pervs
Chapter 7 – What Life Has in Store for Me
Epilogue – Like Nirvana, But Without the Nuance
03 January 2006
markus erectus
i blink too hard, raise my head, lengthen my spine
and wish to find then keep my stride
i wish never to wish for time.
an empty threat, says procrastination’s side
but, says the other, that you consider a wish a threat
makes jiminy cricket look a beast of lies.
so. as i set out to find the new and avoid the same
already the old girls have announced their game:
procrastination's ribs getting poked by sarcasm's finger
(oh proud finger, strident finger)
said ribs finding strength in numbers; like all good malingerers
they cry, we can do it! and are glad for the poster
with that cute-armed woman, the riveter, she brings them together
unlike sarcasm and his dirty faux-poking pharisee of a finger
(oh sunny-side ribs, might-not-have-a-job-but-great-with-kids
will-wait-for-better-cos-we’ve-seen-worse ribs).
so many inside voices, inner children in the fold
this year's Resolution to resolve is so postmodern i've been told, and that
my at-attention posture is like a prairie dog without fur,
the college girls work so hard not to giggle when told
that their tall-but-aimless classmate is graying and thir-
tee-hee-hee hee, oh my god that is so old.
if, some night soon, your coffee tastes of sarcasm, or your cigarette rolls its eyes,
or your burger begs to stay and stay and linger with the fries
that's just fallout; just me and the girls as we sever inside ties
just me tryin' strike a match, to light the kindling in my eyes.
and wish to find then keep my stride
i wish never to wish for time.
an empty threat, says procrastination’s side
but, says the other, that you consider a wish a threat
makes jiminy cricket look a beast of lies.
so. as i set out to find the new and avoid the same
already the old girls have announced their game:
procrastination's ribs getting poked by sarcasm's finger
(oh proud finger, strident finger)
said ribs finding strength in numbers; like all good malingerers
they cry, we can do it! and are glad for the poster
with that cute-armed woman, the riveter, she brings them together
unlike sarcasm and his dirty faux-poking pharisee of a finger
(oh sunny-side ribs, might-not-have-a-job-but-great-with-kids
will-wait-for-better-cos-we’ve-seen-worse ribs).
so many inside voices, inner children in the fold
this year's Resolution to resolve is so postmodern i've been told, and that
my at-attention posture is like a prairie dog without fur,
the college girls work so hard not to giggle when told
that their tall-but-aimless classmate is graying and thir-
tee-hee-hee hee, oh my god that is so old.
if, some night soon, your coffee tastes of sarcasm, or your cigarette rolls its eyes,
or your burger begs to stay and stay and linger with the fries
that's just fallout; just me and the girls as we sever inside ties
just me tryin' strike a match, to light the kindling in my eyes.
22 December 2005
the writing game reborn.
so b.mac sends a pair of lyrics, and i write the story/poem/rant that comes in between:
She's a mixed up kind of girl, The kind you wished you'd never met
She took the country from the world, Now she's teachers pet.
[from Teacher's Pet by Imperial Teen]
She's a mixed up kind of girl, The kind you wished you'd never met. A fulsome kind of girl, not so unlike the rest. No, what separated Debra from the others in her circle (meant here in the loose sense, "circle" -- the geometric bond between these girls was formed primarily by the empty space in their middle) was not that she was mixed up. Nor even the rather sundry manifestations that her mixed-upness took. What made Debra [Pronounced "de-BRAW!" by her crazy-nosed step-mother] different was something very simple -- something noticeable only to a few, as the vital differences so often are: She was obsessed with Mr. Albus DeMornay, her history teacher. Now, Obsession makes for exciting commentary, but the simpleness of this case curtails much of its momentum. So we will look now to a page taken from Debra's ["DEEEbs" by her brother Winceton (self-nicknamed The Winchalator, if you're not into that whole brevity thing)] diary, which she kept on her person at all times. For safety. There are few places where self-evident truth can be contorted and mangled and offered a lollipop more effectively than the pages of a high school girl's top secret diary. And few ways in which those contortions can come to life more vividly than in the form of a list. Thusly, what follows is the entry taken from 19 November of this last school year. (On the opposite side of the page is an entry titled "The Vortex of My Sex," and it looks interesting, quite; but unfortunately it is written in a tight inward spiral, and in very tiny print, all attempts to read it have made us feel not well.) Here, then, is the list, entitled,
WHY MR DEMORNAY WILL FINALLY STOP PAYING ATTENTION TO THAT BITCH SIGOURNEY COX AND FINALLY REALIZE WHO HE REALLY LOVES
1) He has compassion in his eyes, all the time, and Sigourney Cox doesn't know what she's looking at, that soul-stabbing whore.
2) SiCox has an ugly, horrible voice and talks way too much.
3) But when his true love finally gathers the courage to raise her hand, which will happen by class discussion of Ch. 6 of A People's History of the United Sates AT THE VERY LATEST, then he will hear her voice is like a song to him and understand that she IS his TRUE LOVE.
4) And like how Zinn says that when the white marauders came they did more than take over this land, they brutalized it, it was like "they took the whole world out of this country." Like Zinn says that, only this will be the opposite: Mr DeMornay will hear what his almost-now true love has to say and look at her eyes and hear her song and realize that,
5) She took the Country from the World, and
6) Now she's teachers pet.
She's a mixed up kind of girl, The kind you wished you'd never met
She took the country from the world, Now she's teachers pet.
[from Teacher's Pet by Imperial Teen]
She's a mixed up kind of girl, The kind you wished you'd never met. A fulsome kind of girl, not so unlike the rest. No, what separated Debra from the others in her circle (meant here in the loose sense, "circle" -- the geometric bond between these girls was formed primarily by the empty space in their middle) was not that she was mixed up. Nor even the rather sundry manifestations that her mixed-upness took. What made Debra [Pronounced "de-BRAW!" by her crazy-nosed step-mother] different was something very simple -- something noticeable only to a few, as the vital differences so often are: She was obsessed with Mr. Albus DeMornay, her history teacher. Now, Obsession makes for exciting commentary, but the simpleness of this case curtails much of its momentum. So we will look now to a page taken from Debra's ["DEEEbs" by her brother Winceton (self-nicknamed The Winchalator, if you're not into that whole brevity thing)] diary, which she kept on her person at all times. For safety. There are few places where self-evident truth can be contorted and mangled and offered a lollipop more effectively than the pages of a high school girl's top secret diary. And few ways in which those contortions can come to life more vividly than in the form of a list. Thusly, what follows is the entry taken from 19 November of this last school year. (On the opposite side of the page is an entry titled "The Vortex of My Sex," and it looks interesting, quite; but unfortunately it is written in a tight inward spiral, and in very tiny print, all attempts to read it have made us feel not well.) Here, then, is the list, entitled,
WHY MR DEMORNAY WILL FINALLY STOP PAYING ATTENTION TO THAT BITCH SIGOURNEY COX AND FINALLY REALIZE WHO HE REALLY LOVES
1) He has compassion in his eyes, all the time, and Sigourney Cox doesn't know what she's looking at, that soul-stabbing whore.
2) SiCox has an ugly, horrible voice and talks way too much.
3) But when his true love finally gathers the courage to raise her hand, which will happen by class discussion of Ch. 6 of A People's History of the United Sates AT THE VERY LATEST, then he will hear her voice is like a song to him and understand that she IS his TRUE LOVE.
4) And like how Zinn says that when the white marauders came they did more than take over this land, they brutalized it, it was like "they took the whole world out of this country." Like Zinn says that, only this will be the opposite: Mr DeMornay will hear what his almost-now true love has to say and look at her eyes and hear her song and realize that,
5) She took the Country from the World, and
6) Now she's teachers pet.
05 December 2005
Stop often to check she is with you every lick of the way.
Everybody who reads this blog knows that it is an almost bodily explosion of ideas, wherein every entry represents a symbolic, sensual death that with its last breath offers fresh life to you (the Reader) via its sharp insights and erotically charged irony. A death, yes; yet somehow a regenerative one because each entry magically begets another.
Like le petit morte, after morte after morte after morte.
These sentiments were echoed deliciously by reader Sexy Kiss, who wrote to say that he discovered my blog during a horrid family trip, and it "warmed [him] up with it's curious topic, helped me escape the family madness, and gave me some great ideas for my sexy kissing website." I knew just what he meant. He continued, "If you have time I could use some tips from a pro on my sexy kissing site, but no pressure." The only pressure I felt was the usual tightness in the front of my pants, so I decided to go see what Sexy Kiss-related revelations aPSI had inspired.
I was so pleased:
Getting Into the Ryhthm - French Kissing
* Increase the pressure on her mouth.
* Now pull back and look into her eyes, to make sure she is still interested.
* Then drop your gaze to her lips again.
* If she is hesitant or shy, you can whisper against her lips softly, ‘Give me your tongue’.
* With your tongue trace the outline of her lips.
* Then give her another all encompassing kiss again.
* Next slowly swipe your tongue across her lips where they meet.
* If she is interested and excited, her lips will part automatically (if they aren’t already).
* Now caress her tongue in a light licking motion.
* Don’t push your way in, or be too aggressive.
* You can even suck her tongue gently.
I really felt excited and like I had learned some things that I want to try really soon. But, too I will keep in mind the parting words of Sexy Kiss and "go slow until you have got the hang of controlling all the wet stuff."
Like le petit morte, after morte after morte after morte.
These sentiments were echoed deliciously by reader Sexy Kiss, who wrote to say that he discovered my blog during a horrid family trip, and it "warmed [him] up with it's curious topic, helped me escape the family madness, and gave me some great ideas for my sexy kissing website." I knew just what he meant. He continued, "If you have time I could use some tips from a pro on my sexy kissing site, but no pressure." The only pressure I felt was the usual tightness in the front of my pants, so I decided to go see what Sexy Kiss-related revelations aPSI had inspired.
I was so pleased:
Getting Into the Ryhthm - French Kissing
* Increase the pressure on her mouth.
* Now pull back and look into her eyes, to make sure she is still interested.
* Then drop your gaze to her lips again.
* If she is hesitant or shy, you can whisper against her lips softly, ‘Give me your tongue’.
* With your tongue trace the outline of her lips.
* Then give her another all encompassing kiss again.
* Next slowly swipe your tongue across her lips where they meet.
* If she is interested and excited, her lips will part automatically (if they aren’t already).
* Now caress her tongue in a light licking motion.
* Don’t push your way in, or be too aggressive.
* You can even suck her tongue gently.
I really felt excited and like I had learned some things that I want to try really soon. But, too I will keep in mind the parting words of Sexy Kiss and "go slow until you have got the hang of controlling all the wet stuff."
14 November 2005
Ooooh ... let's go ...
Hunts walks warily down the street, with his pants pulled way down low.
Ain't no sound but the sound of his feet, witticisms ready to go.
Are you ready, are you ready for this? Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?
Out of the doorway the cynicisms rip, to the sound of the beat.
BUMP BUMP BUMP, badump bump bump baBUMP.
Another one bites the Hunts.
Ain't no sound but the sound of his feet, witticisms ready to go.
Are you ready, are you ready for this? Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?
Out of the doorway the cynicisms rip, to the sound of the beat.
BUMP BUMP BUMP, badump bump bump baBUMP.
Another one bites the Hunts.
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